


Still Life

by Rachael Sabotini (wickedwords)



Category: Dead Like Me
Genre: Canon Character of Color, F/M, POV Female Character, Snark, Yuletide, Yuletide 2004
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-25
Updated: 2004-12-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 21:37:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwords/pseuds/Rachael%20Sabotini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romance in the afterlife is really kinda complicated, ya know?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [koanju (verstehen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verstehen/gifts).



> Thanks to elynross for the beta.

"My mother always loved mother-daughter outings. I guess she figured that they would bring us closer, but they usually drove us farther apart, what with the yelling and the fighting. Before most of these bonding moments, she stood at the bottom of the staircase and yelled up at me while I yelled back at her from my bedroom. 

"Why do I have to go?" I asked, leaning my head back against the wall.

"It'll be good for you, sweetie. You'll gain exposure to fine art."

"I'd rather stay with Dad."

"Your Dad's staying at home to watch Reggie. This is strictly a mother-daughter trip."

"Take Reggie on the fucking trip. I'll stay with Dad."

My mother's mouth always went funny whenever I swore, like she'd eaten something sour. "Reggie's too young, honey. And we're going with Helen Stanford and her daughter. Remember Angie?"

Boy, did I remember. Helen Stanford was my mom's cousin, and that was supposed to make her daughter and me best friends. Last time they spent a few days in Seattle, Angie stole my bike and crashed it into a tree. I hated her with a passion. "I'm gonna stay with Dad."

"Georgia, you are going. Be downstairs in five minutes." You never argued with my mother when her voice got that particular tone in it. I liked to think of it as the Voice of Doom.

"Fine," I said, dragging myself down the stairway. "But I'm not going to like it."

Of course, having said that, it turned out I did. While Angie rattled on and on about her Barbie collection and the sweater she bought and how wonderful it was back in buttfuck Idaho, I looked at the paintings -- really looked at them. I don't know what it was -- the lighting, the space, the fact that I hated Angie so much I wanted to be anywhere except next to her -- but I loved it. I liked being able to peek into another world, yet still stay safely outside of it, like I did with books. 

When mom asked about it later, I shrugged. "It was okay, I guess." I must have said it in that weird way that only mothers understood, because for a while after that she was always suggesting we go to museums and stuff. 

Daisy has a great painting that she took from some artist-guy she reaped. She keeps it in her bedroom, so I don't see it much, but I like it. I sleep in her room sometimes. She still gets the shakes, thinking Ray is crawling around outside her window, and no matter how many times I tell her he's gone, she just won't believe it. So on those nights I lie down next to her and look at everything until she finally falls asleep. The painting's kind of creepy-looking, in the dark, like it's a whole different world than it is in the light.

Mason still lives with us -- we're like some twisted, undead Three's Company -- and he's offered to spend the night in her room on more than one occasion; she just gives him that look, and then asks me to stay. Mason then sighs heavily, and when I come out a couple of hours later, he's crashed out on the couch, the TV still on. Sometimes I watch him for a while, and wonder what he was alike when he was alive. Then I figure he hasn't changed much, so I turn the TV off, throw a blanket over him, and head to bed. That seems to be the extent of my exciting night-life, anymore, now that I don't have a frog.

I let Daisy borrow my car tonight, and now I was soaked. My reap had not gone well, but it had gone, and some days that's the best you can hope for. I should have just headed home for a warm shower and a cup of coffee, but Der Waffle Haus was on the way, so I dripped my way inside.

Kiffany was filling the sugar dispensers up behind the counter, with the burned smell of coffee that's sat too long on the heating unit filling the air. The place was empty but for us. I guess there was a cook in the kitchen somewhere, but I didn't see him; it was just Kiffany and me and a sea of moss-green booths and plaid-backed chairs. The same ol' stupid music was playing -- I don't think they ever shut the damn thing off -- and who the fuck thought yodeling ice, ice baby was such a great idea, anyway?

How Kiffany managed to work under these circumstances, I didn't know. I was pretty sure she was psychic, but I'd think listening to the top ten greatest yodels of all time on continuous repeat would make her psychotic, too. I'd certainly include it as part of my definition of hell.

Then again, my *life* would be included in my definition of hell, whether as a reaper or as a Happy Time temp. George's Inferno was filled with all kinds of crap like that, whether I liked it or not.

I settled down on a stool at the counter, near Kiffany, though not right up next to her. I didn't think I should be that close to anyone.

Kiffany stared at me. "Sudden rainstorm?"

"Fell in a fountain." I ran my right hand over my hair, still not quite ready to trust the left one yet. "There were some rocks around the edge, and I think I hit one."

"Uhm-hm." Kiffany had a cup and the coffee pot in front of me before I even got my damp coat off. The stuff she poured didn't look too bad, and it just tasted fine, once I added enough sugar and some cold milk. I drank half the cup before I finished taking the coat off. Damn, but my left arm hurt! When I laid the coat down next to me, I realized how bad it looked; I had torn it in a couple of spots when I hit the rock wall, and as for the rest of the coat, well.... I have a stockpile of "for those days" laundry cleaner, the one that's guaranteed to get blood, brains, and grass stains out of whatever you're wearing. I figured I'd need about a gallon of it to get my coat clean, and that was just from the pond scum.

"What'll you have?" Kiffany asked, taking it all in stride. Even when we were rude and sullen and miserable, she never said any of those obnoxious things that people say when someone is down, like "smile!" or "It can't be all bad!" I appreciated that, as my first instinct was to snarl "Screw you" to anyone who did that. Made me popular in sixth grade, I tell you.

I thought about it. It was too early for a full breakfast, and I didn't feel like dinner. "You got any cake? Or pie? I'd love some pie."

"Well, there's some bumbleberry in the back, if you're interested. I try to hold onto a slice or two of something in case one of my special customers arrives."

Special customer. I liked that. Even if it did make me feel kinda like Rube. "That sounds great. Thanks."

While Kiffany did whatever it was she did in the kitchen, I took another deep swallow from my coffee. I reeked of pond scum. My reap had electrocuted himself trying to fix the motor on his fountain, and the spark had flared enough that I jumped back, hit my foot on one of the rocks around the pond, and fell straight into the stagnant water, catching my shoulder and head on the rocks on my way down.

I think I passed out, but I'm not sure. I did have to sit in the damn water a while before my vision cleared. 

Kiffany came around the corner of the counter and set the pie down. "Sure you don't wanna get that to go?"

"Nope." I dug into the pie. She'd warmed it, and there was real whipped cream. 

"Suit yourself." She hesitated, then said, "Mind if I sit down? I've been on my feet all day, and my legs are killing me."

I was a little surprised, but -- "Sure. Go ahead."

Kiffany didn't seemed to mind that I was dripping all over the counter and soaking through the upholstery; she sat close enough to me that I could practically smell her, which meant she had to be able to smell me. And where I knew I smelled like stale pond water and algae, Kiffany smelled more like maple syrup, homey and warm, which was something in short supply in my life anymore.

She sat sideways in the chair and stuck her legs out in front of her, her sensible shoes pointed out at odd angles. Her legs weren't that bad, despite her age. I guess working as a waitress all day really did give them a workout.

"Do you mind if I ask you something?"

Uh-oh. Here it comes. Questions about where I was and what I'd been doing and if she needed to call a doctor

"What happened to the other girl? Before the blonde -- your roommate -- showed up?"

"You mean Betty?"

"Uh-hmmm. What happened to her?"

What did happen to Betty? Nobody knew. "She just kinda moved on." I shrugged. It was hard to explain, so I didn't.

"Do you think your boss misses her?"

"Rube?"

"Uhm-hmm. I see him come in sometimes, without you guys, just thinkin'."

"It's not about Betty." Maybe Roxy knew what it was about, but I didn't. Rube was treating me more like an adult these days, the way he treated Roxy. He hadn't called me 'peanut' in weeks, but I guess I really was too old for that nickname now. I'd been a reaper for two years now, and there was no going back. 

I kind of missed it.

"Well, it's about someone."

I took another bite of my pie. "I don't know who. He's only been weird for the past couple of months."

"Well, maybe something happened to one of his friends, or his family? What about--" She paused. "What about that old friend of his, that was in the other day? You know the one. She gets iced tea with no ice."

I thought about who I might have seen in the past couple of months that knew Rube. Ah! The woman from the nursing home. The natural causes reaper. "Penny?"

"That's her. He seemed worse after she came to visit."

I shrugged. "I don't know. I just met her myself. You could ask Mason or Daisy about her. They seemed to know her better."

Kiffany frowned. "I just don't like it when one of my special customers get upset."

"You really like Rube, don't you?"

"What's not to like? He tips well, treats the staff right, knows what he likes to order, and appreciates good food." She smiled a little, and I wondered.

"Kiffany, do you have a crush on him?"

She stared directly at me, in that motherly-but-unnerving way she has. "You can't have a crush someone like him, sweetie. It never works out." 

"What's that mean, someone like him?"

"You know, honey. Like you and the rest of his crew. You're not exactly like the rest of us, are you?"

Oh-kay. I didn't really have an answer for that one, so I sipped at my coffee and looked at the counter instead. 

She changed the subject, talking about her son and how upset he'd been when his girlfriend dumped him, while I thought over what she'd said. Ray and Daisy had been a bad match from the start; the fact that he was alive hadn't been as important to me as the fact that he was scum. 

Daisy talked a lot about her pre-death experiences, and I knew that she'd had a lot more after. I wanted to ask her if she'd ever had sex with another reaper, or if she only screwed the living. I wouldn't put it past her, and I knew Mason wanted to. I just wondered if it was different from sex with the living. My only experience was with Trip, so how would I know? 

Mason said he loved me, but he'd thought he was going to die at the time. Or disappear. Is it dying, if you're already dead? And despite his declaration, I was pretty sure he didn't want me, so my opportunity to test this line of thought was pretty darn limited.

Romance in the afterlife is really kinda complicated, ya know? 

There was a significant lull in Kiffany's monologue, so I enthusiastically agreed with whatever the hell it was she had said. 

"That's what I told him, too," she said, slapping her hand against the counter. "You can't stop living simply because you're heart's been broken. You got to learn to handle your feelings and not try to stuff them into a box on the shelf. Well, the next day she calls him back--"

"She called him back?"

"Uhm-hmm. So then I get another three o'clock call, 'Mom'"

Eventually, my grunts and occasional nods stopped coming, and Kiffany wound down the stories of her family's tragic love lives, and the silence between us lengthened uncomfortably. Then Kiffany glanced up, and I thought I heard the door open. She stood and squeezed my good right shoulder, the one I hadn't hurt in the accident. "I guess I better get started on the salt cellars," she said, and headed for the kitchen.

I wished that she'd refilled my coffee cup before she left. 

Somewhat out of breath, Mason poured himself into the chair that Kiffany had vacated. "You look like hell, Georgie-girl. No wonder Kiffany called."

"Screw you." I sipped at my coffee and noticed that the skin on the back of my hand had partially pealed away. Funny, I didn't remember hitting my hand during the reap. I set the coffee down and folded the skin back, waiting for it to heal, and glanced up at Mason.

He looked more pale than usual, which is saying something. He looked good, though, which is also saying something. Mason had become a demon at laundry and personal hygiene since he moved in with us.

Daisy hated that he lived with us, hated seeing him around the place all the time, a reminder of her role as the goddess of bad luck, but I liked it. He was fun, and he didn't take things too seriously. He was pretty good company, all-in-all -- way better than the frog. 

I liked having him around, even though I knew he wasn't interested in me the way that I wanted him. He was Jack, Daisy was Chrissy, and I was Janet, and Jack never wanted Janet. 

Mason sat forward, one hand on his thigh, and pushed my hair out of my eyes, looking into them. "Didn't anyone ever tell you to get the hell out of the blast range?"

I smiled, and felt my lips crack. "I thought I was." 

He put his fingertips under my chin and turned my face slightly, so he could see the bad side. "No darlin', you sure weren't."

No shit. His fingers felt really good. I closed my eyes for a moment, so I wouldn't have to look at him anymore, because he would know. 

"Is it too bright in here?"

"Maybe a little." 

"Doesn't look like a concussion, anyway." His hand fell away, and I opened my eyes. "Come on. Let me walk you home."

"Should I call a cab?" Kiffany said from the kitchen doorway.

"No, I've got her." He gently put his arm around my good shoulder and pressed me upwards, getting me out of my chair. "Here, take this." He put his jacket around me and shrugged. "It's not exactly clean, but it's dry."

"Thanks, Mason." I grabbed my ratty wet coat, and we left. I wished he'd put his arm back around me.

We didn't say much as we walked to the bus stop, but it was a friendly, companionable silence. Mason kept running off for a moment or two to examine something -- a newspaper, a bottle, the homeless guy sleeping on the grating near the campus bus stop, anything that caught his eye. Then he'd come back to me and fling his arm around me, and make sure I was alright.

It was the most I ever remembered him touching me, and I liked it. 

We were in luck, and the next bus that went past our house was less than ten minutes away. Mason proudly displayed the bus pass he'd bought; it wasn't stolen, and he hadn't lost it yet, and he'd had it almost a week. He was like a little boy who'd kept a toy unbroken for a week after Christmas.

Our house wasn't that far, and we could have walked, but the bus would be warm, and I appreciated it. My clothes were dry, and they crunched every time I moved.

"How's your arm?"

"Still hurts." I rolled my shoulder under the jacket. "Better, though."

"Good. See," he said as we climbed on the bus, pointing to one of the ads across the way from us, "that's what you need."

"Erectile disfunction? Mason, is there something you're not telling me?"

"No, not that one." He slapped my bad arm companionably, and I hit him back. "Ow," he said rubbing his arm. "The one just to the right, with the pink background."

"The one for the antacid?"

"Not the product, the coat." He stabbed at the picture with his hand. "It looks like it's warm. And you'd look good in a coat like that, that's what I'm saying."

"Mason, it's got fur. I don't do fur." Not since I was seven, anyway. We found seats and sat down in the nearly empty bus.

"Sure you do fur. All women do fur." 

I stared at him.

"Or at least Daisy says they do."

"Yeah, well, I'm not Daisy, and I don't like fur." 

"What about leather?"

I settled back against the seat. "Now that's different. Leather's good."

"Well, what's the difference between leather and fur? They're both dead animals, aren't they?"

I rolled my eyes. "Fur is fuzzy and leather isn't. Just leave it at that, okay?"

"Just--"

I held up my hand. "Not a word, Mason."

"All right," he said and sighed. "Not a word." He jumped up on the seat so he was kind of perched on it, like he might need to leap off at any moment, his head flat against the window as he stared up at the roof of the bus. Mason was often jittery and oddly balanced in his chair, and I'd noticed he often sat with his back against the wall, like the gunslingers in the old westerns my Dad used to watch. He exuded a frenetic, nervous energy most of the time. I think he's ADHD or something like that.

"It's not the fur, it's the color," he said suddenly, like it was an amazing discovery, and I realized he'd been looking up at the ad.

"Leopard print?"

"Yea. It's like your hair." He looked at me directly, and fuck, were his eyes blue. "It's almost the same color."

I swallowed and looked away. "My hair reminds you of a cheap imitation leopard print. Gosh, thanks, Mason. That's a real compliment."

He shut up for a good three minutes after that. "It's tawny," he said finally. 

"Is that your word of the day or something? What's tawny?"

"Your hair. It's tawny. And so's that fur thing. That's why you'd look good in it. It's tawny."

I chalked it up to Mason being wigged out again, and he rested back against the window and occasionally muttered "tawny." I felt like such a jerk because every time he said it, I got a little thrill because he liked the color of my hair.

By the time we got off at our stop, I felt a lot better and had moved on to yelling at myself for being such a stupid fuck that I'd fallen in the pond in the first place. Mason had finally stopped saying anything when I didn't answer, and his unnatural silence was also beginning to wear, but I just couldn't bring myself to strike up some banal chatter. 

Mason had forgotten to lock the front door, and he'd left all the lights on. "Next time remember to turn off the lights, will ya?"

He shrugged, his hand pressed against his chest. "It's not my fault, it's Kiffany's. She's the one who told me you were hurt, and she made it sound like half your face had fallen off."

"Mason, I was fine. Really."

"Right." He nodded. "Next time I get a phone call telling me you're in trouble, I'll remember to turn out the lights first."

Put that way, he did have a point, and I felt like a jerk. I put his coat on the coat rack, keeping mine to hang up in the bathroom, and noticed that Daisy still wasn't home. Mason must have noticed that I stopped, as he curled his arm around my lower back and guided me into the bathroom. "Let's see how bad the damage is."

I hated the bathroom, hated the fact that the face I saw wasn't the one other people saw "Just take a good look and make sure there's no gravel or glass or anything in it." I turned away from the mirror and took off my shirt, holding it in front of me as I faced the shower curtain, feeling both awkward and oddly uncaring that I was half-naked in front of him. "It's not like I'm gonna die from it, or anything."

"I know, but it can still get infected, and that can get pretty disgusting," he said, with what I presumed was the voice of experience. He stroked his hands softly down my back, and I could feel his breathe against my bare skin. 

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath of my own; it felt really good. I spread my legs apart slightly, as his hands slid down my waist then quickly back up off my ass. I thought I could feel his fingers trembling. I wondered what was happening.

"Looks good, I think." His voice was slightly higher pitched than normal. "Doesn't look like anything's broken, no bone fragments poking out, no embedded rocks."

He ran his fingers through my hair, gently feeling my skull to see if there were any lumps, then stepped back. "So, that's fine, okay, turn around, and let me see if there's anything--"

I turned around, still clutching my shirt to my chest, and Mason swallowed hard, staring at me. I didn't really intend to do it, but then my shirt was on the floor, and Mason was still staring. I hadn't bothered to wear a bra -- one of the joys of being dead is never having to worry about sagging, according to Daisy -- and his eyes dropped lower.

"May I just say," he said in a reverent tone, "that you have magnificent breasts? Really, they're just right--" He put his hands up as if he would squeeze them, and I my nipples hardened at the thought.

"Yeah, ah, right." Mason looked away, and his voice sounded really odd. "Maybe, maybe you better do the front." He stood and kinda threw the tube of antiseptic in the sink, not really looking at me. "I'll be in the living room," he finished lamely, "having a drink."

Then he walked out of the bathroom, leaving the door wide open.. I felt really weird, but not like he'd rejected me.

I showered, toweled off, and had a robe on inside of five minutes.

I dunno, maybe it was something Kiffany'd said, or maybe it was remembering how my mom looked when she asked me to go to the museums, or a play, or anything, and I told her I didn't want to.. My mom had wanted something and I'd missed it. I didn't want to miss this. I didn't want to wake up and know that something could have happened, and didn't. I didn't want to spend an eternity dodging around an awkward not something, when we could dodge around an awkward something instead. And I was sure that I wouldn't have to yell at Mason to make him do something he wanted to do anyway, the way my mother had always had to yell after me. All that had to happen was for someone to make the first move.

I sat down on the couch next to him, but Mason refused to pull his head out from under the pillows.

"Look Georgie, I like you--" 

"Mason, I can't hear you with the pillow over your head."

"Fine." He pulled the pillow off and sat up, but still wouldn't look at me. "I love you, okay, but I love Daisy, too and there is no way we can do this without it getting ugly. I'll screw up, you know I will, and once we do it, I'll want to tell complete strangers that we did it. I can't keep it bottled up inside. I'm not like that, okay? We're friends, and I don't want to fuck that up." He scrubbed his hands over his face, and finally looked straight at me, his eyes bright. "So from now on, I'm going to make some rules, too. You don't like me hanging free at the breakfast table; I don't like you going all" he gestured toward my chest. 

"Naked? Baring my breasts?"

"Yes, that." He bit his lip, and I could see that despite his protest, a part of him was certainly interested. "No teasing. If it's not available, I don't wanna see it."

"What if it is available?"

"It's what?"

"Available."

"Are you saying your chest is available?"

"Yes."

"To me."

"Yes." Screw the whole politeness thing. I ran my hand up the side of his neck and fisted his hair, drawing him in gently, so our foreheads touched. "I know it's a bad idea, but so what? Who the fuck cares?"

I kissed him. His lips were all warm and soft, and opened immediately with a little groan. His breath spill over my lips, and I drank it in -- drank him in -- nibbling on his lower lip.

Mason slid his fingers into my hair. "Fuck, yeah. Who the fuck cares?"

I wanted to get laid, and Mason wanted to get laid, and we liked each other, so why not? It's not like I could get pregnant or catch a disease or anything. 

Maybe this wasn't going to be the best sex either of us would ever have, but it didn't have to be. We were friends, and we could still be friends after, though I would have to deal with everyone knowing about it. 

When my mom took me to the museum, I'd expected to have a miserable time and instead I'd found something that I loved. Tonight was like that again. I slid my hand onto Mason's crotch; I could feel how hard he was through the fabric of his pants, and I knew exactly what I wanted. I stood and threaded my hand in Mason's, pulling him up off the couch and tugging him after me, down the hallway to my bedroom. Daisy would come home soon, and I didn't want her walking in on anything. Tomorrow would be time enough to worry about how awkward it was gonna be; having her walk in unexpectedly would have made it just that much worse.

Mason didn't care, just looked at me like I was some sort of damn miracle. Maybe to him I was; it wasn't often something like this happened to him. 

Then again, the same was true for me.

 

THE END  



End file.
